


Team Fortress: Origins

by Jason01960



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Action/Adventure, Comedy, Mystery, Team Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:28:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24431380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jason01960/pseuds/Jason01960
Summary: In 1971, before the events of the TF comics, the members of RED team must solve a mystery involving the disappearance of the Engineer, as well as face threats to their personal lives. There is one man at the center of it all: the mysterious Dawson, who's whereabouts and true intentions are unknown. When the mercs' families are threatened, what will be more important? Finding the one responsible, or protecting them at all costs?
Comments: 12
Kudos: 23





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, reader.
> 
> I don't post a whole lot of stuff on fan-fiction sites, but I've got no proper place to post this one, so I'm hoping it's a good decision putting it here.
> 
> I tried to stay as true to the feeling of the original comics as possible. This is meant to be a prequel, and I wrote it with the intention of staying as close to the lore as I could, even if the lore is ridiculous. I'd appreciate any feedback you could give me.
> 
> P.S: My monkey brain accidently marked this as complete and I don't believe it's possible to change it.

Sniper and Spy 1971

“And that’s how that started.” Spy said, wrapping up his story, “If I knew what I was getting myself into, I never would have come there. But if I had to go back and do it all over again, I would.”  
The trailer hit a road bump, “Bloody hell!” Sniper yelled. He softened his voice and said, “Oh, yeah, I get that. That’s where you got your sapper thing. Wouldn’t want to go without that.”  
“Yes,” Spy said with a melancholy sigh, “but I would give up this silly thing to be with her again.”  
“And she’s dead?” Sniper said, not sounding very interested.  
“No.”  
“Then why can’t you see her?”  
“She’d be furious. She had a son... “  
“Yep, I see. That’s why I don’t do that sort of stuff. It’d be unprofessional to have a kid on the job, and I’m always on the bloody job.”  
“So it seems.”  
The two were on their way to Badwater on an intel mission. The Red team had been here once before to push a bomb into the basin. None of them bothered thinking about details of that job, they just did it. Spy was pondering it as of late-- their sometimes ridiculous tasks. Like stealing a briefcase full of elementary school papers, which they were told explicitly not to open. Perhaps the contents of the case wasn’t as important as attaining the case itself, he thought, and the process of getting it. Any other seasoned mercenary --Sniper, for instance-- would tell him that thinking about things so much is bound to get you killed. Spy knew, however, that you’re better off staying ahead of the game than dead. He learned that the hard way.  
Their mission was to find out who was manufacturing weapons for the Blu team. The Administrator told them they cut off their orders from Mann co, which happened to be where Red got their weapons as well. Spy would know, he was on the Blu team once. Everyone on the Red team was on Blu at one point or another. The pay on Red was better, though, which attracted the group of mercenaries Spy knew so well. Nobody switched sides anymore; the teams were so established that no one would want to get confused. Plus it would seem weaselish to play the traitor so late in the game.  
Now Entering Badwater, the old, washed out sign said. After driving for a few miles past it, they came upon the Blu warehouse, although that word didn’t quite fit this place. It was more like a facility or complex. Much too big to be a warehouse. What sort of warehouse has watchtowers with armed guards?  
Sniper parked the van and went to the back, “Lemme grab my gun,” he said. Spy exited the vehicle and made sure all of his equipment was with him.  
Sniper came out brandishing an exotic rifle.  
“A new weapon?” Spy asked.  
“Yep. I call ‘er Sydney. Air rifle.”  
“Sleep darts?”  
Sniper shook his head, “No, these,” and handed Spy a plastic pellet. “Don’t squish it,” he said.  
“What’s in it? Nerve gas?”  
“Piss.”  
“Merde!” Spy dropped the bullet and scowled at Sniper.  
“They’re effective. It’s more of a tool than a weapon. Better for stealth, too.” Sniper said as he picked up the pellet and loaded it in.  
“What are you trying to do? Give them a bacterial infection?”  
“You’ll see, mate. You’ll see.”  
“Hopefully you won’t have to use that thing. You’ll spot from that watchtower by the entrance. I’ll take care of the guards. Here,” he handed Sniper a walky talky, “we’ll use these.”  
“Sure.”  
There was no fence, or even a gate for that matter, in the front entrance. That made things easy for Spy, unfair even. He walked right through with his invisibility watch and tiptoed up the watchtower stairs. Once at the highest level, he stabbed the guard twice in the neck, making it as quick and painless as possible for both of them. He put the disguise kit up to the dead man’s mask, registered his identity, and applied it to himself. It was all downhill from here.  
He scaled down the tower and approached the two guards at the entrance.  
“Hey,” he said, “the boss wants both of you at the admin building. They’re sending me and another guy to cover your shifts.”  
“Where’s the other guy?” one of them asked.  
“He’s on his way, but you better get back there before OS tears you a new one.”  
“Shit…” the other said as they both made their way back.  
Spy signaled for Sniper. He positioned himself at the watchtower and waited.

That Spy’s an interesting bloke, Sniper thought. Not interesting as in mysterious, more so dangerous. Whose side was he on? Thiers, sure, but what if he’s playing two sides of the same game? Mercenaries did that a lot, but not as much as the bloody French. When the going gets tough, they get going, as in retreating.  
“The guy carries a disguise kit, for crying out loud.”  
Yeah, and you talk to yourself. Best not to think about these things.  
He couldn’t see Spy as he scanned the area. Sniping was like fishing: you have to be patient and attentive, you never know when you’ll get a bite. A door to the warehouse in the distance opened on its own-- he was in. Not much Sniper could do from here. He was about as useful as a football bat right now. Patience was all he had.  
This was reminiscent of the time he spent waiting three hours for the boat to take him to America. He smiled at that thought. That was the day he left home and never came back. A wave of homesickness overtook him, and all he wanted was to be back on the farm with his parents, hoeing peas and carrots. Then the moment passed, and he remembered how much he hated that crappy place. What a boring existence, that was. His parents had it in them to do it their whole lives, but there was something else in Sniper. Something… deadly.  
He spent two years isolated in the Australian outback just to get away from it. Scrounging up food and fletching arrows was a lot harder than sowing seeds and picking vegetables every year, but it was more purposeful in every aspect. Alas, after spending six years in the wilderness, Sniper returned home and helped out with the family farm for a couple more years. And a couple years was all it took to want him to get out. One day someone contacted him about a high paying job in the US that Sniper couldn’t turn down.  
He remembered trying to escape that dreadful farm by casing his rifle and claiming he was going to become a business man in the states. His dad was furious-- told him,


	2. Chapter 2

Sniper 1952  
“The day you’re a businessman is that day I’m a bloody kiwi. You said the last job you wanted was a desk job.”  
Sniper stood in front of the house, looking into his father’s angry eyes. What did he want, he wondered? Not to lose a farmhand, or not to lose his son? Probably both.  
“I’m doing something called ‘accounting,’ dad. I think it’ll work out great; I’ll send you and mum money every week.”  
His father’s face was grave, “I don’t want your blood money.”  
“No, no, dad, you don’t kill anyone in accounting. You do numbers.”  
“Then why is your briefcase shaped like a bloody sniper rifle?”  
“Oh,” Sniper said under his breath, “bugger.”  
The old man let out a deep exhale and sat on the porch step. His head hung low as he leaned forward.  
“Listen, son,” he said softly, “I can’t stop you from going out there. But being a crazed gunman isn’t a real job-- it’s a mental sickness. Your mother is worried out of her wits you’ll get yourself killed, and I’m worried you got a couple screws loose. Just give up this stupid dream and get on with the farming.”  
Footsteps came down from upstairs. His mother came out in her nightgown and rubbed her eyes.  
“What are you boys doing out here so early?” She asked.  
“Your boy wants to be a murderer.”  
“Oh, the sniping business again?” She shrugged and rubbed her eyes, “Well, if it makes him happy, I say let him do it. I don’t approve of it anymore than you do, but what’s the point of putting up a fuss? Besides, it’s what makes him happy.”  
“Thanks mum,” Sniper said. His mother gave him a hug.  
“Have fun out there, son,” she said.  
“I will.”  
“I’m angry, son,” his father said, “but not as much as I am disappointed.”  
Sniper got one good last look at his parents, “There’s ten thousand dollars in my bedroom upstairs in the topshelf of my drawer,” he said, “it’s all the money I’ve made so far.” And after that it was a short walk through the desert to the airport.

Strolling through the town, he noticed how wooden everything was. It was an old timey place. Most of its residents worked on farms, and those who didn’t were criminals for the most part. And everyone drank at the same pub; that pub with the silly swinging doors that creaked like screeching birds with broken glass all over the floor. Sniper checked the time at the clock tower he happened to walk by and saw he had thirty minutes before his flight. Might as well have a few last drinks, he thought. Let good ‘ol George spread the word that he was leaving town.  
This pub was where everything happened-- fights, clubs, business deals, town council meetings, birthday parties, birthings, and a million spectacular nights. You could get a good drink here, too. One might think the owners of this place would have done something about the rotting wood exterior and smashed windows, but the owners --George and Eva Green-- would say that they’re not exterior design experts, they’re bar owners, and all a bar owner has to do is serve a good drink and participate in fights whenever possible. Not decorate the house with fancy paint like Pablo whats-his-name.  
Sniper swung open the doors for the second-to-last time. George was cleaning some blood off of the counter when he met Sniper’s eyes at the front of the room. He was a big hairy man with a mustache, like eighty percent of Australia’s population. A wide grin stretched across his face.  
“G’day, Mr. Mundy! Do my eyes deceive me? Is the Mundy kid coming in to grab a bottle-o at six in the morning like a real Aussie? If that’s the case, this one’s on the house!”  
“Thanks, George.” Sniper dropped his rifle case and sat on a stool, “Just thought I’d have one more drink before I leave the country.”  
George blinked. “Leave?” he said, “Where you goin’? Back into the wilderness somewhere?”  
“Got a good job in the states.”  
“Ah,” he tilted his head back and winked, “I have a pretty good idea what it is. I hear people are calling you ‘Sniper’ now. Good job, kid, doing what you want. Most people don’t have the guts.”  
“Thanks,” Sniper chuckled, then looked around. “Say, where is everybody?”  
“They’re at some car show,” George said as he poured some lager, “Don’t know why someone’s having a car show at six o'clock in the bloody morning. They’ll be here to grab their lunch drinks at around noon. We ought to have you a going away party then.”  
Sniper shrugged, “I’m booked to leave in half an hour. But y’know what,” he placed five-hundred dollars on the counter, “buy ‘em a drink on me.”  
“Oh, they’ll appreciate that alright. You know, I’ve been meaning to ask--”  
Someone kicked open the creaky doors. There was only one person with the audacity to kick the doors open like that: Oli. The greasy haired hunter had his hands on his hips and was looking dead at George with that straight line of a mouth.  
“How you doin’ Georgie?” he asked.  
George’s smile disappeared, “Fine as a fucking fiddle. Yourself?”  
“Couldn’t be better,” Oli said as two of his goons followed him in.  
“How about you, lads?” George asked.  
“Fine,” one said.  
“Also fine,” the other said.  
Oli approached the counter, flanked by the other two. He wore a cap with a billion crock teeth on the base, and a leather vest. The other two wore similar outfits, but without nearly as many teeth on the hats.  
Oli was hated and feared by most of the townsfolk for his evil ways. He hunted, but used poison to do it. Always let the animal suffer, too. Claimed bullets were too expensive to waste on a dying animal. Sniper suspected that the man was a sadist and a coward, maybe not even a real Aussie. One time someone challenged him to a brawl and he pulled out a gun and shot him in the chest. The bullet didn’t dig very deep, considering Oli shot him in the chest hair, and you never shoot an Aussie in the chest hair-- it only makes him angry. Still, Oli won the fight on account of shooting him in the legs as well. This wasn’t even a tall tale people passed around town, it was just what Oli did last Tuesday.   
“Ginger beer, please.” Oli said. He looked at Sniper, “Been hunting, Mundy?”  
“Something like that,” Sniper said.  
“Not animals, I take it?”  
Sniper hesitated, “Not many of ‘em.”  
“Hunting people, huh. Well, if it means anything, I’ve stopped hunting animals all together. I’ve developed more sophisticated tastes, you might say. But I’m not hunting people like you, you fucking psychopath.”  
George slammed his fist on the counter, “If you’re gonna have a problem with the kid, get your ugly arse out of my bar.”  
Oli didn’t even look at George when he put the six shooter in his face. “I’m hunting money, Mundy. Cash.”  
“Really?” Sniper said as his fingers slowly reached down at the bottom of the stool for his rifle case, trying to be discreet.  
“I wouldn’t do that unless you’re looking to get shot in the face.” Oli said to Sniper, “Money on the counter, George ‘ol pal.”  
George was hesitant, but he complied. “Coward,” he muttered while opening the register.  
Oli turned his head to George and raised his voice, “Do you have something to say? I’d like to--”  
The gun fell to the ground and a spurt of blood came bursting out of the hand that held it like a broken pipe, giving George a red mustache and staining his only good shirt. Oli let out a high pitched scream as he ran out of the bar before his goons even knew what happened. When they did, they scowled at Sniper and wielded Kukri blades of their own.  
Sniper didn’t waste any time. He rushed in, put his blade in one of their necks and dodged the other’s swings. But the other guy was fast, and wouldn’t let Sniper take him down until he at least hacked a limb off. While dancing around the bar, dodging swings, Sniper tripped over the (almost) dead body of the goon’s friend, and it was over for him. The thug raised the blade over his head, Sniper braced for the pain, then heard a BANG! as a new hole presented itself in the bastard’s head.  
“You had me for a second there, kid,” George said as he put the rifle back behind the counter, “Crikey that was fun. Shame you’re leaving,”   
Sniper wiped the brains off of his shirt, “Yeah,” he said while eyeing the clock, “well, I ought to get going.” He picked up his rifle case.  
“Have fun with the murdering.”  
“Assassinating, George. Never change.” He opened the doors for the last time and walked out.

At the boatyard he waited for his new employer for three hours. Patience was always the key in these things. He knew him when he saw him: the brit decorated in medals and badges of all shapes and colors.  
He recognized Sniper right away, it would seem. He shook his hand, smiled, and said in a coarse, gruff voice, “Call me Dawson.”


	3. Chapter 3

Sniper and Spy 1971  
“I have the intel.” Spy’s voice said on the mic, “My cloak and disguise kit are both out of power. Is the warehouse door clear?”  
“Clear,” he said as he took aim and scanned the area. Spy came through the same door he went in, knife in hand. Spy was sailing smooth for the most part, but Sniper was disappointed he wouldn’t get to use his new weapon. He filled all of those pellets with piss for nothing.  
Just then, when Spy was almost at the entrance, the two guards they sent off were coming back to their posts. They sounded angry, mentioning the ‘practical joke’ someone played on them. Spy hid behind a crate, and would without a doubt be seen if the pair came any closer.  
“Oh, blimey,” Sniper said as he took aim.  
He let out a mischievous chuckle and aimed right above one of the guard’s crotches. Then Pew, the entire bottom half of him was covered with dark yellow urine, which was very visible on his light blue uniform.  
The other guard turned around to see what that weird wet noise was, and laughed. He was so caught up with laughing while the other guard was so caught up trying to explain that he didn’t piss himself that they didn’t see the intruder sneak right back out the front entrance.  
Spy didn’t admit the usefulness of Sydney, but Sniper didn’t care-- the job was done, and that was all that mattered.  
On the ride back to base, Sniper realized something.  
“When you were telling me about that job,” he said, “who did you say that bloke was?”  
“Atkinson?”  
“No, the one who hired you.”  
“Dawson, I believe.”  
“He was covered with badges, right?”  
“That is correct. But I don’t recall mentioning that.”  
“I think I knew him.”


	4. Chapter 4

Scout 1971  
“You pip squeaks wouldn’t know a football if it hit you square in the face!” Soldier screamed as he tackled Demoman.  
“We’re playing baseball, Soldier,” Scout said, standing on home plate with a bat in hand. It had been two weeks since they were given fresh orders. They did receive an intel job, but the administrator was explicit in wanting only Spy and Sniper on that one. Scout scoffed at that. They sent them on an intel mission to save the real muscle: himself. I mean, he thought, sending someone like me on an intel mission is kind of a waste, ain’t it? I could be doing more important things like… playing baseball.  
Scout hadn’t played since he was a kid, and would feel a sense of nostalgia if the others knew how to make the game work. They’d been out here for forty minutes, and not a single ball had been thrown. What he wouldn’t do to play with someone on par with him. Oh well, it was lonely at the top.  
Demoman groaned, “I think ye broke something.”  
“You’re damn straight I broke something. I broke the world record for best football play in the history of America, and you were on the receiving end.”  
“Soldier,” Scout said again.  
“What is it, private?”  
“We’re playing baseball, not football.”  
“If we were playing baseball we would be in JAPAN, because baseball is a JAPANESE sport. We are in AMERICA and we are playing AMERICA’S beloved pass time: football. Now play ball!”  
“Would someone just throw me the freaking ball already?”  
“Mhmph,” Pyro said as he chucked a speedball. Sparks flew on contact along with a clank, but the ‘ball’ didn’t go very far.  
“Pyro, don’t throw rocks,” Scout said. Pyro, however, as he always is, was in a world of his own. Soldier, on the other hand, was sprinting across the field towards the rock lying on the ground. Scout thought he ought to run before Soldier tackled him… or worse. So he did; he ran to an improvised first base.  
“Too slow!” Scout said, oblivious that the only other person still playing the game was Soldier, who was waiting for him at home plate. After gloating around the diamond at top speed, Scout was met with a heavy fist that clotheslined him before home plate.  
“Touchdown!” Soldier yelled.  
When Scout came to, he felt something missing in his mouth along with a dull pain where his two front teeth should be. They were lying on the dirt in front of him, covered in a little blood. He moaned and put them in his pocket.  
“Are we playing best two of three?” Soldier asked, “Or have you pansies had enough?”  
“I’m gonna call it quiths thor me.” Scout said, “Duth anyone know if Medic’th in hith room?”  
Demoman, still lying on the ground, pointed upwards and said, “Aye, he is.”

Scout went back into Red base. Passing through the rec room, he noticed it hadn't been swept in a while. That was Engineer’s job, if he remembered correctly. Now that he thought of it, he hadn’t seen that guy in a while. He usually hangs out with Medic, Scout knew. They were probably up to inventing some sort of weird scientific doodad. Something useful, he hoped. Either way, Scout would remind him not to neglect his chores. You know, in the least mom-ish way.  
Scout knocked politely on Medics door, waited a few seconds, then knocked impolitely. Medic answered.  
“Good day, my friend.” he said, “were you followed?”  
“What? Uh, no, I don’t think tho.”  
“Then come in!” Medic pulled him in by the arm.  
“OK,” Scout said.  
He led Scout to an operation table with a medigun above it and told him to lie down. Scout did, despite the dried blood on it. He watched the doctor frantically press a series of buttons and switches before lowering the medigun above him and powering it up.  
“Don’t worry, this will only hurt a little.”  
“Hurt? What are you thalking about, doc? I jutht-- OW.”  
Scout felt as if his bones were being dissolved and picked at. He writhed on the table in pain for the three seconds the device was on.  
“What the thuck was that?!”  
“The latest advancement in reverse medicine technology: the anti-medigun. I made it myself-- using parts from an old vacuum. It takes away life from the victim instead of giving to it.”  
“Victhim?!”  
“Don’t worry. You’ve only lost --ah-- two years, give or take.”  
“Look, doc, I came in here tho you can hit me with the medigun that doethn’t kill me. I buthted by theeth.”  
“Ah, I see. I could fix them myself, you know. I am a certified dentist. Well, not certified, but I’ve done it before!”  
“Jutht hith me with the gun, doc.”  
“As you wish.”  
Medic swapped out the medigun and switched it on. Scout felt a weird ticklish feeling in his gums as his teeth grew back into place. It got rid of a bruise on his leg, too. Thankfully, the medigun didn’t get rid of any scars, so Scout could still show them off. Like the scrapes on his leg, or the small cuts on his upper arms, or that one scratch on his pinky finger.  
“Good as new,” the Medic said.  
“Thanks. You know where Engie’s been?” Scout asked.  
“Oh, him? He’s on vacation. He won’t be back for a few weeks.”  
“Vacation? We get vacations?!”  
“He has… his own affairs to attend to. Not exactly a ‘fun’ hiatus.”  
“I ought to get a vacation, carrying the team all of the time,” Scout mumbled. “See ya, egg head.”  
“Farewell.”  
Scout went straight to Engineer’s workshop right across from Medic’s room. He hadn’t had a job in two weeks, and they didn’t exactly get paid for sitting around doing nothing. Scout’s caffeine addiction remained unsated in that time. The ‘ol hard hat should have a couple bucks lying around for an Atomic Punch. Scout told himself that he was borrowing only enough for a soda, and he’d pay him back on their next job. He wouldn’t steal from his own coworkers-- that’s just plain wrong.  
The door to Engineer’s room had a computer terminal built on the front of it with a keyboard. When Scout approached the screen it read, Password, in green text with a blinking colon next to it. After mashing some keys on the keyboard, the screen said, Two tries left. Scout couldn’t read, but he was pretty sure that it didn’t mean ‘open sesame’. He hit the terminal with his fist and hurt himself doing so. Medic probably knew how to open it.  
He went back into Medic’s room.  
“Hey, uh, Medic?”  
“Yes?” Medic said while sharpening a scalpel.  
“How do you open Engie’s door?”  
“Why do you want to know?”  
“I think he stole my scattergun.”  
“Why on earth would he do that?”  
“I dunno, but he’s been threatening to for weeks. Kept saying, ‘Scout, if you don’t stop stealing all of our kills, I’ll take that damn thing away from you!’”  
“Hmm. That doesn’t sound likely,” Medic stopped sharpening the scalpel and looked at Scout, “however, if you wouldn’t mind lending me one of your kidneys next week, I’d happily open the door for you.”  
“Doc, I’ve only got one now.”  
“That’s alright.”  
Scout sighed. He didn’t think the mad doctor would kill him, why not give him what he wants? He’ll probably find another kidney by then, anyway.  
“Fine, you can have my kidney. Now how do you open it?”  
Medic smiled and went back to sharpening his scalpel, “There is no password to the terminal. It’s a button under the keyboard.”  
“Gotcha.”  
“Jederzeit.”  
Scout went back to the door and pressed the tiny red button. It opened on it’s own with a mechanical whirring and clicking noise. When he entered, the door immediately closed behind him. The lights turned on automatically. The workshop was clean and organized down to the atom. Engineer was a neat freak, alright. That was probably why it was his job to sweep the rec room. Scout didn’t want to knock anything over in fear of upsetting the universe of the room, and that Engineer would notice something out of place even if it was nudged the tiniest bit. He watched his step and thought about where he would keep his money. Probably under the huge pile of papers.  
The desk of maps, records, and blueprints stood out like a sore thumb; it was the only spot of the room that wasn’t organized. The big map sprawled out on top of the pile had Texas circled on it, but Scout paid no mind to that, as he couldn’t buy a soda with it. He sifted through the papers and found a few quarters at the bottom. It was enough to get a soda, he deduced, so he left with it. Or tried to, at least.  
He tried to pull open the door, but it wouldn’t budge. A buzzer sounded off that almost made Scout jump. A robotic voice came from the door,  
“Intruder detected,” it said, “initiating lock down procedure. Do not touch anything. Have a nice day.”  
Scout banged on the door, “You gotta be kidding me!”  
“I don’t make the rules. I just enforce them.”  
“Screw you, pal. Hey, wait a second.”  
“What?”  
“Who the hell are you?”  
“I am the Engineer’s workshop.”  
“Wait, if you’re a workshop, how are you talking?”  
“The science of my composition is beyond you.”  
“But Engineer made you, right?”  
“That is correct.”  
Scout gave a low whistle and slumped his back against the wall, “Just so you can stop people from breaking into his shop?”  
“That is correct.”  
“What else can you do?”  
“I can open and close doors.” The voice opened the door and Scout jumped for it, but closed it right before he made it. “Gotcha,” the voice mocked.  
“You’re a real comedian. Is that all you can do?”  
“It was all I was designed for. The Engineer doesn’t use me for much else. You powered me on when you came into the shop; it’s the first time I’ve been awake since my day of conception.”  
“Are there any other doors to this place?”  
“Yes, but I’m not supposed to--”  
“Come on, pally, Engie’s on vacation and probably won’t be back for another few weeks. You might as well show me now before I convince you. Let’s just get it over with.”  
“I cannot argue with that logic,” the robotic voice said. The wall above Engineer’s bed opened up and folded into the wall, revealing a descending metal staircase.  
“Alright, now that’s what I’m talking about! Come on, let’s see what’s down there.”  
“I am already down there.”  
“Yeah, right,” Scout said, scaling down the staircase. As he walked further down the creaky steps, the place grew darker, and he began to question his decision until the bright florescent lights came on that nearly blinded him.  
He found himself in a big, wooden room set up like a museum. About fifty glass cases were set up all around the room, each containing some nick nack of the Engineer’s, except for a few that contained other objects like a wedding ring, a child’s locket necklace, and a red piece of cloth. Scout figured these were mementos --personal belongings with sentimental value-- and didn’t pay them much mind. He felt weird all of a sudden. Like he was inside the Engineer’s mind, prying open his secrets, looking into his personal life.  
“What is this place?” Scout asked.  
“This is the Engineer’s display room. For every milestone in his life, he adds to it. That letter at the end of the room is the last object he added. Would you like to hear the audio file?”  
“Well, jeez, I don’t really know,” Scout said, rubbing his arms.  
“He wanted this one to be found.”  
“Alright… play it, I guess.” Scout shrugged.  
“As you wish.”  
Engineer’s voice replaced the robot’s. Scout knew him as a stoic guy-- always calm under stress, never panicking or losing his crap. But he sounded pretty frustrated in this one.  
“The date is May 14th, 1971,” Engineer said, “and today I received the letter that’s the reason for my little ‘vacation.’ There ain’t a person alive today that knows anything about my life besides those I hold close, which I separate from work like oil and water. I found out today that that statement doesn’t hold up. Whoever sent this letter knows everything about who I am… and who I ain’t. It’s my responsibility as a man to protect the last people I wanted to put in harm's way.” He let out a deep sigh and lowered his voice, “If I don’t end up coming back and you find this message, just know, whoever you are, that they’re coming for you, too. They got dirt on the whole team, and they plan to use it. And if that don’t work… then you best get your affairs in order, because they’re gonna get you.” He raised his voice again, “But who knows? Maybe I’ll get these bastards before they know what hit them. That’s the plan, at least. I’ll delete this message when I’m back in a few days. So long.”  
Scout stood there in silence. Family. He had forgotten about family. Now it was all coming back. All he could think about was home. Boston.


	5. Chapter 5

Scout 1962  
Joey was waiting for Jeremy at first base, as always. And as was typical of Jeremy, he would run straight past Joey, through the first base, and stop at second. There wasn’t a single time anyone could recall Joey getting Jeremy out. The runt thought it was his superior speed, cunning, and energy, but the other seven brothers knew better; Joey let him pass. Old habits die hard.  
When the boys were younger, Joey had the reputation of being the fastest and the strongest. He ran track and was always the first to the punch. Jeremy, on the other hand, was slow, small, and weak. The gang of brothers always won whatever fights they got in, but the opposition was down before Jeremy could get into punching distance. When he became sick of it, he joined track like Joey. And Joey, being the person he was, helped Jeremy on his way to becoming the fastest brother of the bunch. He wasn’t as fast as Joey yet, but at least he made it to the fights. Joey taught Jeremy things about manhood as well, like being respectful to those who aren’t in a position to defend themselves. In a way, Joey was like a father to him.  
Even with Jeremy being as fast as he was, Joey still let him pass first base. That wouldn’t be a problem if it was just the Parker brothers playing, but the red headed o’Doyles were mixed into the game this time. There were eight Parkers and only six o’Doyles, so Joey joined the other team and took first base. So far in the game, Jeremy went up to bat eight times and scored eight runs. It irritated Patrick o’Doyle --the oldest brother-- that someone so small and pathetic made it past their team every single time. It had to be someone’s fault, and it surely wasn’t any brother of his. It was that fucking Parker kid on their team.  
Patrick put his hands in a T, signaling a timeout. He whacked Joey on the arm, “What’s the big idea, pal?” he said.  
“What is it, Pat?” Joey asked, pretending not to feel the impact.  
“First of all, don’t call me Pat. Second, why aren’t you getting that little shit out? You’ve had more than enough chances.”  
“He’s too fast for me. Have you seen him run? You try catching him.”  
Jeremy watched from second base, “Hey,” he said, “you giving my brother any trouble?”  
Patrick turned his attention to Jeremy, “Can it, short stack, the big kids are talking.”  
Joey shoved Patrick, “What did you just call him?”  
Joey was a lot bigger than Patrick. The ginger looked over to Jeremy, then back to Joey. “Jeremy,” he said, “I called him Jeremy. Now let’s play, and if you don’t start playing the game right, I’m gonna pull a baseball out of your ass.”  
“Fair enough.”  
The rest of the brothers, who were ready to pounce, went back to baseball mode. If you messed with one of the Parkers, you messed with all of them. Patrick probably realized that, and changed his attitude before it got him demolished.  
The next one up to bat was Johnny Parker: the boxer. He would have no problem hitting this into the far outfield, everyone knew. Johnny knew that, too, so he bunted the ball. But he used the lower half of the bat by mistake and almost got hit in the hand doing so. This mistake caused the baseball to roll right into Joey’s glove at first base. Joey had no problem getting a big kid like Johnny out, but when he saw Jeremy run to third base an instinctive reflex took over not to throw the ball. By all counts he should be throwing the ball, his brain was telling his arm to move, he was stepping forward to pick up momentum, but the ball did not leave his hand until Jeremy reached home. In the end, Joey threw the ball to the pitcher, Patrick, who threw it back at him hard, and started marching towards him.  
“Everytime we play this stupid god damn game,” Patrick said, “you Parkers don’t even play right-- you’re all sucking cheaters!”  
“Go easy, pat.” Joey said softly, “I don’t want to fight you, but these fellas will rip you apart without a second thought.”  
“No,” Patrick said, “I think we’ve had enough of your crap.” At this point Patrick’s brother, Peter, was rushing up from behind him, trying to tell him to stop before they all ended up in a brawl. But Patrick couldn’t hear him over the sound of blood rushing to his head as he cocked his fist back and socked Joey in the face. Blood ran from his cheekbone, and for one rare moment, Jeremy saw that he was hurt. The Parkers wasted no time. Neither did the o’Doyles. They were on top of eachother like animals fighting for food.  
On the East side of Boston, fights were commonplace. If a fight like this were to happen in a small town in, say Maine, the boys would kill each other without mercy. Boston boys are desensitised to violence and pain to the point where an honor system was ingrained into their culture like social etiquette. Unspoken rules accompanied this system, like if someone surrenders, you stop pounding on them, but if you do surrender, you’re branded a coward until you prove otherwise. And if someone’s down for the count, leave them be.  
Thanks to his sucker punch, Patrick was getting the best of Joey. The other brothers would have stepped in, but were occupied with their own foes. Jeremy, after dealing with one who underestimated him, jumped on Patrick’s back and got him in a chokehold. No matter what he did, he couldn’t get the runt off. In the midst of it, Jeremy noticed someone sitting on the bleachers, watching them fight, unfazed, smiling. While he was distracted, Patrick managed to shake the kid off and give him a good kick in the back before Joey thumped him in the head. By now the fight was coming to an end, and the Parker brothers were victorious.  
Joey helped Jeremy up, “Nice move there, kid,” he said, “saved my ass.”  
“Yeah, I know. Don’t mention it,” Jeremy said casually.  
“Don’t look now, but… you saw that guy on the bleachers, right?”  
“Yeah.”  
“He’s been watching us the whole game. Nobody knows who he is.”  
“You wanna talk to him?”  
“Yeah, ‘talk.’”  
The two approached the bleachers. The man in the trenchcoat was smiling at them as they approached, making them feel a little less intimidating. Joey felt for the switchblade in his pocket before getting too close to him.  
“Good day, boys,” the man said in a funny accent.  
“Are you some sort of pedophiler?” Jeremy asked.  
“I’m no ‘pedophiler.’ Just a talent scout. You boys fight pretty good.”  
Joey squinted at the man, “We already know that. Why were you watching us, creep?” he said.  
The man put a cigar to his lips and lit it, “You boys want a job?” he asked.  
“What kind of job?” Jeremy asked, suspicious.  
“A fighting job. You boys are much too young now, but as time goes by, we’ll see if you’re the right fit or not. I could put you on the waiting list, if you this sounds to your liking.”  
“Gimme one of those things,” Joey said. The man handed him a cigar and Joey tried it, coughed, and pretended he liked it. “Tell you what,” he said, “we’ve had plenty of fighting jobs. I don’t think this is a situation of us suiting you-- it’s about whether you suits us, if you catch my drift. What do you want us for?”  
The man let out a laugh and slapped his knee, “Oh, you know, typical mercenary work. It’s always nice to have some hired killers on the backup. What do you say?”  
Jeremy was about to say hell yes before Joey took him aside to talk.  
“One second, chief,” he said.  
The man gestured with his cigar, “Take your time.”  
Jeremy was smiling stupidly and Joey smacked him for it. It was the first time in years Joey had hit him. The last time was when he burned down the living room carpet when he was six, but that was to save him a beating from their mother’s drunken boyfriend. This slap was harder than that.  
“Ow. What’s the big idea?” Jeremy said.  
“Do you know what you’re getting yourself into, kid?” Joey said, grabbing him by the shoulders.  
“I think so.”  
“You’re going to be killing people.”  
“Uh huh.”  
“And you’ll probably die.”  
“Uh huh.”  
“So you understand?”  
“Ayup.”  
“Alright, let’s do it.”  
They came back to the man and told them that they were in. The man smiled, tossed his cigar stub, bid them farewell, and walked off. Before he got too far, he turned around and asked, “Oh, by the way, how is Ms. Roberts doing?”  
“Ms. Who Now?” Jeremy said.  
The man smiled as if realizing he said something really stupid and walked off. The two brothers simultaneously realized that the accent the man spoke in was British.  
“So,” Jeremy said on the walk home, “we’re gonna be assassins?”  
“More like murderers that get paid,” Joey said, “but that’s pretty close.”  
“Like the movies?”  
“Yeah, like the movies.”


	6. Chapter 6

Engineer 1971  
He pulled up the Cadillac to his childhood home and waited. The time was two-thirty on the dot, exactly two hours before he was supposed to arrive. The letter asked him to be at this house at twelve-thirty on this day for a meeting on neutral ground. Whoever the hell this was knew how to get the upper hand with him, and that made the Engineer furious. He gripped the steering wheel in his leather glove, trying to think what this son of a bitch wanted. Money? His employment? To kill him? Knowing the strangeness of the situation, it was probably the last thing he expected it to be. Whatever it was, it wasn’t going to be anything good.  
The condition of the house made him sad. Peeling paint, knocked over fences, grass that went up to your knees. His mother was getting too old to do this stuff on her own. He wanted to help, but was too busy with work. Always too busy with work. That’s what led to--  
He grabbed his lunchbox from the passenger seat and shut the car door. The steps creaked --and he thought one of them almost broke-- as he walked up to the door. He hesitated, then rang it. His mother came to the door after a couple minutes.  
“Dell? Hello, Dell, dear! Have you come to visit?” she asked. She was half blind and partly senile. Her white hair was dyed an unnatural red. He would like to say she hadn’t aged a day, but she had aged a lot of days since the last time he’d seen her. What was that? Five years ago? Eight?  
“Ma!” he exclaimed, “Yes I have. How’ve you been?” He gave her a hug.  
She embraced him back, “I’m fine as I’ll ever be, I reckon. Come on in, take your coat off.”  
He did just that. The inside of the house was in much better condition than the outside. Old paintings were hung up around the staircase, the biggest one being of his grandfather, Radigan Conaugher, sitting in the living room armchair with his welding goggles, not looking too happy with the situation. Did the old man ever smile? Dell couldn’t remember.  
As he was taking his boots off, his mother told him, “I have a friend from work over, I hope you don’t mind too much. She’s nice.”  
“It’s no problem.” It was.  
“Good.”  
Once into the living room, Dell discovered that her guest wasn’t a ‘she’ at all, but an old man. He sat in the same armchair as the one in the painting, checking his fancy pocket watch for the time. He smiled at Dell.  
Dell smiled back, “How ya doing? I’m Dell.”  
“Yes, I’m aware of that,” the man said in a British accent, “pleased to meet you. You may call me Donna.” His smile grew wider.  
“Say, I think I remember you from somewhere. You a local?”  
The man stifled a laugh, “I am. Was it the accent that gave it away? I do think I remember you as well. My, my, we have so much to catch up on.”  
Dell looked at his mother. “Hey, ma,” he said, “would you mind fixin’ us up some sandwiches?”  
“Certainly not!” she said cheerfully, clueless.  
“Take your time.”  
Dell’s smile disappeared as he sat on the couch across from where the old man was. He held the handle of his lunch box next to him. “If I open this thing,” he said, “your brains are going out the backside of your head. If my dear ma wasn’t here, I’d have done it already. Instead, I want you to give me a reason to. Start talking.”  
The old posh man waved a condescending hand at him, “Please, do not worry. I came unarmed.” He shifted around the seat to get more comfortable. “Now, Mr. Conagher, I didn’t come here to kill you; I didn’t come here to kill your mother; I hardly came here to scare you; I require your services. I know you don’t trust me: I know where your family resides, I know about your past, and I know how to make you disappear like a magician with a rabbit. But I have a deal you can’t refuse.”  
Dell shook his head, “I already have a good paying job. You don’t have nothing you can offer me. I might as well kill you right now.”  
“What would you do to see your wife again?”  
He gripped the handle of the box tight enough to snap the man’s neck. The veins of that arm popped out like a cartoon, and beads of slippery sweat rolled down his head into his shirt. He said nothing.  
“Well, whatever it is you would do, it won’t have to be much. Get a machine up and running, and you can see your wife and your daughter again. Hell, you could pay a visit to your grandfather if you so wanted.”  
Dell pushed all thoughts of those two out of his mind-- it only hurt. Once he was thinking straight, he decided he couldn’t turn down the old man’s offer. Not for all the Australium in the world.  
“We'll talk about it... some other time,” he said. “Now get the hell out of my house.”  
His mother came back with the sandwiches, and Dell put on the smile again. Donna (which Dell was certain wasn’t his name) showed himself to the door and bid them farewell. But not before whispering in his ear that he would contact in a few days about the job.  
For the first time in a decade, Dell had hope.


	7. Chapter 7

Scout and Heavy 1971  
“So, Shop, for real,” Scout said, slurping a can of peaches, “you’ve never seen a movie before?”  
“I have never left the workshop. I’d like to see a movie one day, it may be… educational,” the workshop said.  
It had been three days since Scout was locked in this place. He counted his lucky stars for finding the food stash. There was enough food to last him Nixon’s term, although that was the last thing he wanted to do. It wasn’t possible, however, for the workshop to open the door for him-- that was against its programming. So as much as a friend Scout had become to it, Shop couldn’t open the door for anyone but the Engineer.  
“Tell you what, I’ll bring you to one when we get out of here. Bring Engie if you want-- make it a party.”  
“Wicked,” Shop said. Scout had been teaching it some new vocabulary.  
Scout finished the can of peaches, “Man, these are the best peaches I’ve ever freaking had. Are there anymore back here?” he said as he jumped up to the top shelf. “Nope, just green beans.”  
Just then, there was a loud banging at the door-- too hard to be a knock. Scout went to go investigate. The door was bending towards them as if someone were using a battering ram.  
“Shop,” Scout asked.  
“Yes?”  
“Who’s that?”  
“If I had to guess, I’d say--”  
The door burst open and went flying over Scout’s head, almost knocking him over, almost killing him, smashing everything in its wake. In the doorway was a figure of great strength, standing there at the size of a large gorilla, almost taking up the whole doorway. They didn’t call him Heavy for nothing.  
He bowed his head to avoid hitting the top of the doorway and looked around.  
“Sorry for mess,” he said.  
“Tell that to Engineer, bud.”  
“What were you doing in workshop?” Heavy asked, rubbing his chin.  
“You first.”  
“Looking for you. Why are you here?”  
“I was looking for the Engineer.”  
“Fine. Come.” Heavy said, gesturing for Scout to follow him.  
“Hold on a sec, I gotta grab something.”  
Scout went over to a panel on the floor and lifted it up, revealing a shoebox sized speaker. Not only did the box contain a speaker, but an entire functioning artificial intelligence.  
“Oh boy,” it said, “I’m so excited to see the world.”  
“You and me both,” Scout said. He caught up with Heavy and asked why he was looking for him.  
“We are having meeting,” Heavy said.  
“Cool, cool,” Scout said, “why?” He was a little nervous. They didn’t call for meetings unless it was serious.  
“We will see.”  
The big guy wasn’t one of many words. The two (or three, you could say) of them walked the halls in silence towards the rec room. Something was very ominous about it.  
The entire Red team except for Engineer was there. Spy stood at the head of the table that the rest of the team was gathered around. They seemed bored, and Spy gave that smug grin that pissed Scout off so much.  
“Ah, Scout, so kind of you to join us,” he said, “be seated.”  
Scout saw no reason to object, so he sat. Whatever the meeting was about, it wasn’t anything good, judging from the faces around the table. Yet no matter how grim it was, Scout wasn’t going to listen to Spy drone on without zoning out.

The subject of the meeting worried Heavy. There were two reasons he took this job: to fight, and to support his family. He seldom thought of his sisters and defenseless mother when shooting people, but when he did, it made him fight better. A man behind a gun with a purpose, Heavy knew, is a better shot than a man behind a gun who lives for nothing. Heavy was a good shot with a minigun, and that’s saying something.  
He knew that there was someone that knew about his life, and that they were willing to use it against him. But what he didn’t know was how much worse it was.  
“Gentlemen,” Spy said, “we have found out who has been shipping our dear friends at Blu their weapons.” He placed some photos on the table. They were of trucks in a warehouse with the words Mann co. plastered on the side.  
“Mann co.?” Heavy asked.  
“No, a false Mann co. Here,” Spy placed some papers on the table, “these are the ledgers, shipped from Texas. Another thing to note,” Spy said as he paced around the room, “is that a name often comes up when backtracking where these trucks came from and who they work for. Has anyone here ever known a man named Dawson?”  
“Da,” Heavy said, “I did.”


	8. Chapter 8

Heavy 1969  
The chilling winds of Siberia are not for the unprepared. If you are wearing anything less than three pelts, you’re risking your life. It is important to have some fat on you as well. Being thin is a deadly mistake in the desert of snow. Mikhail was not thin.  
He was a mountain. Muscle and fat were what kept him alive. Not only to keep himself from freezing to death, but to fend off the country’s deadly predators as well. When you came toe to toe with a bear, you had to be strong, you had to be quick, but above all you had to be big. You could carry a gun, but guns were scarce, and the only gun Mikhail owned was his mini-gun, Sascha, which weighed over 150 kilograms and would be a pain to lug around. It was so much easier to just wrestle the animal like nature intended.  
He arrived home with food for his family. It was dark, the fireplace was out, Mikhail assumed that they were sleeping. They were not.  
“Misha!” His youngest sister, Zhanna, said, “You are back!”  
“Yes. Do not wake the others,” Mikhail whispered.  
“We are not sleeping,” his mother said from the other room, “we have been waiting for you.”  
“I am sorry I could not have returned sooner. I have brought meat.”  
“Wonderful. I will cook it. More bear?”  
“Yes. I also brought firewood. Are you not all tired? It is late, no?”  
Bronislava and Yana, Mikhail’s other sisters, came out from the other room.  
“Well,” Yana said, “it has been an easy day.”  
“Yes,” Bronislava agreed, “we have so much energy, it’s impossible to sleep.”  
Mikhail cocked an eyebrow at their strange behavior, but that was it. He put some wood in the fire, lit it, then put the rest away. His mother was cooking the bear meat into a stew; Bronislava and Yana were talking about something upstairs; and Zhanna was wandering around the house aimlessly, preoccupied.  
“You are so quiet, Zhanna,” Mikhail said, “you are never at a loss for words.”  
“Nothing much to talk about.”  
Mikhail gave an affirming grunt and continued on with his night time ritual. After finishing the last few pages of a book, he wrote about what he thought of it in his journal, along with how the rest of his day went.  
'The book was good,' was all he wrote about the book.  
'A typical day in Siberia. Walk around, find bear, kill bear, get wood, bring home bear meat and wood. The men who seek us have not come in a long time, but we must not forget they exist. I know they will send more to find us, and we will be ready for them. This is the calm before the storm, some may call it. Yet I do not want to worry my family with suspicion of a baba yaga lurking around the corner. It is best if they continue on with their lives without having to think about such things.'  
He let the ink dry, closed his journal, and put it under a floorboard. The hole in the ceiling reminded him of what he could not give his family.  
“Food is ready!” his mother yelled from downstairs.  
“Coming,” Mikhail replied.  
The dinner table was set expertly. His mother had done this a million times before. Everything was always in the same spot: fork and knife on the right, spoon on the left, and a big bear head at the end of a table. And boy, did it smell delicious.  
They all seemed unsettled by something, Mikhail noticed, as they hardly ate their food. They prodded at the chunks in the stew and seldom ate some, eyeing each other nervously. Mikhail was finished before they were halfway through their first serving.  
“Is something wrong?” he asked.  
“Misha…” his mother said, “a man came while you were gone.”  
Mikhail’s expression changed to a very serious, very grave one. “Did he say who he was?”  
“No,” his mother shook her head, “I do not know who he was with.”  
“Brother,” Bronislava said, “I do not think you should worry about this man. He was not even Russian. If he was one of the men who seek us, we would all be gone by now.”  
Zhanna spoke up, “I did not like the feeling of him,” she said, “decorated in badges, that accent. He must be with the KGB or GRU.”  
Mikhail stood up and everyone stopped talking. “We must leave,” he said, “tomorrow.”  
“Where will we go?!” Yana said. “If they can track us to this frozen wasteland, surely they can follow us wherever else we go?”  
“We must try. We cannot stay here now.”  
“Mikhail is right,” their mother said, “we cannot be where they know we are. It is too dangerous.”  
“It is settled, then,” Mikhail said, “we leave tomorrow.”  
“No, brother,” Bronislava said, “I am tired of running away. We do not even know who this man is.”  
“Which makes him all the more dangerous. Pack your things.”  
Bronislava threw up her arms, “Fine! It was not like I liked this place anyway.”  
“Sister, do not be angry--”  
“How can I not, now that I know we are going to run away every time we see a person?! I do not want to live in isolation like this.”  
“Fine,” Mikhail crossed his arms and raised his voice, “if you do not want to live in isolation, then live in a prison camp for the rest of your life, because that is the only alternative.”  
“Maybe I will!” Bronislava yelled as she threw a spoon at Mikhail. It bounced off him like a feather.  
He went to his bedroom. After a moment he came back to the table with his journal and tossed it into the fireplace  
“What was that?” Zhanna asked.  
“Dangerous,” he said.

Later that night, Mikhail tossed and turned in his cot. He could not sleep, so he got up and went to go read his book. Or tried to, at least.  
The man with the rifle pointed at him, he knew, was not part of a dream. In dreams, he can’t feel things or think straight, but all of his senses were sharpened to a point right now. Every dust particle floating around the small room seemed to matter in this moment. He did not think about what would happen if he was caught or killed, only how to kill the man as quickly as possible.  
“Listen, big man,” the rifle holder said, “I’m not with the KGB. I’m not even Russian, as you can tell.”  
Mikhail examined him. There were badges on the outside of his fancy, fluffy coat and he spoke in that accent Zhanna mentioned. This was the one, he was sure. The one who wanted to see him earlier. His finger wasn’t on the trigger, so Mikhail might stand a chance if he got close enough.  
“What do you want?” he asked.  
“To offer you a job in America.”  
“Can I bring my family?”  
“If you don’t mind putting them in harm's way.”  
“Then no.”  
“I will make sure they are safe here, if you believe me.”  
“I do not. Leave. Now. Before I make things bad for you.” He stood up from his cot.  
“Do you really want to do this to your family? Make them scrounge for food and hide their whole lives because you’re too afraid of something different?”  
“Scrounging for food is better than being dead. Among other things.” Mikhail was about to reach out and grab the man’s gun before he remembered Bronislava, how she felt about this. Maybe he should be more open minded about such things. He was torn on the situation, but did his family deserve this? The ones who seek them did not know about their whereabouts, so giving the job a try would be a viable option. If he did not like it, he could return home. That was how this sort of thing worked.  
“What is the job, anyway?”  
The man grinned. “Killing bad people.”  
“And I will be able to use Sascha?” he pointed to the minigun besides his bed.  
“Yes, you can use whatever you want. Are you in?”  
Mikhail hesitated, then said, “I am in. When do we leave?”  
“Tomorrow. You can call me Dawson. You’ll need a codename. How does ‘Big man’ sound?”  
“Just call me Heavy Weapons Guy.”  
“Heavy it is.”  
Dawson smiled, nodded, and left through a rappel line that came out of the hole in the roof. The next morning, Mikhail would tell his family that he got a job in America, and that they wouldn’t have to live like this anymore. He hoped they would be happy.


	9. Chapter 9

Heavy 1971  
“He is the one who gave me job,” Heavy said.   
“Anyone else?” Spy asked.  
Demoman and Sniper nodded their heads, Medic agreed in German, Scout ignored the question, but had; even Pyro seemed to recognize that name. A strange feeling swept over the Red team. One of unifying knowledge that they all knew this man at one point. Except for Soldier.  
“No sir,” he said, “I have never met that man. Although I did kill an entire regime of Nazi commies once with a banana peel. Wanna know how I did that?”  
“That will not be necessary.” Spy said, “I will contact the administrator. Scout, could you give me Ms. Pauling’s number?”  
Scout woke up from the nap he was taking, “What about Ms. Pauling?”  
“Her phone number. You said you had it?”  
“Oh, yeah.” He stretched, “I’m kind of, uh, not in… possession of it anymore.”  
“You never had it, did you?”  
Scout blew air at him, “What are talking about? ‘Course I did. I just lost it.”  
“Of course,” Spy said mockingly. Scout ignored him. “Well, that is all. Get back to whatever it was you were all doing.”  
Heavy left and went to the phone room. It was a bare and windowless grey room with a red tint on the ceiling. All that was in there was the phone, hence the name phone room. It was stolen from an airport, and was welded to the wall crookedly, making the room feel like it was tilted. The glass dome on the mechanism was too low for Heavy’s figure, so he had to sit down to use it.  
He dialed to his family. They answered instantly.  
“Hello? Who is this?” his mother said.  
“Hello, mother, it is me.”  
“Misha! Why do you call.”  
“Are things OK?”  
“I believe so. Nothing bad has happened.”  
“I mean… are you happy with how you’re living?”  
The question took her by surprise. “Of course we are, Misha. You gave us a big house and money for supplies and a few luxuries. But… if I am going to be perfectly honest, I miss my son. Your sisters miss you, too. Why don’t you visit sometime?”  
“It is dangerous. Someone could follow me. I will one day, but not now, not when things are so bad.”  
“Yes, I know. I am sorry.”  
“I am, too. Are the others there?”  
“They are out hunting. Would you like to tell them something.”  
“Tell them that their big brother misses them, too.”  
“I will.”  
“Goodbye.”  
“Proshchay.”  
He hung up the phone.  
He couldn’t understand why he felt so guilty. In his mind he was doing the right thing, but in his heart was a longing to be with his family. That was the conflict of man, he knew: the battle of the heart and mind. He loved Sascha, he loved killing bad people with Sascha, but he also loved his family, and was obliged to be there for them and provide for them. Even if he couldn’t physically be there.  
He went back to Spy, who was still in the rec room, smoking, preoccupied.  
“What is next?” Heavy asked.  
Spy took a long drag and put out the butt of his cigarette. “We need to stop Blu from getting their weapons from whoever is supplying them. Our first lead is in Europe. That’s where it seems the weapons are coming in.”  
“Alright.” Heavy lifted his head up high. “I will go.”  
“This isn’t a job about running in and shooting everyone.”  
“That is fine. What do I do?”  
“I’ll brief you in the morning. It’s a rather boring assignment. Are you sure you’re interested?”  
“Da. It has been long time since our last job.”  
“Alright, then. I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Don’t bother me until then.”


	10. Chapter 10

Ms. Pauling 1971  
Ms. Pauling stood in front of the biggest fake rock in the known world. It was designed to look like a mountain that fit perfectly into the environment of the Nevada desert. Ninety percent styrofoam with a metallic lining. It looked like it needed another paint job.  
It wasn’t the rock itself or even what was inside of it that was important, it was what was under it. An invisible keypad on the side of it opened a metal hatch into an underground bunker 300 feet west of the fake mountain. Inside the bunker you had to pull five levers in the correct order within thirty seconds or a napalm bomb would explode and you burn you into a crisp. If you put in the right combination, a door opens up leading to a room with a school desk and a computer. You have to answer a security questionnaire before the final door opens, where you do a speech recognition into the intercom, and a gun pops out of the wall and shoots you in the head.  
If you travel 300 feet north instead, you will find a similar looking metal hatch that leads straight to the Administrator’s headquarters. Ms. Pauling was heading there now.  
To her, the Administrator was known as Helen. There were only three people in the world that ever knew that. Two of them were dead.  
She opened the hatch, went through the chrome tunnel, and entered the final code into the keypad. The door opened. Helen did not turn from the monitors she overlooked.  
“You wanted me?” Ms. Pauling asked.  
She said nothing.  
“Is this about Soldier and Demoman? Because if they’re doing that again, I can just--”  
“Would you ever betray me, Ms. Pauling?” Her voice was calm, determined. It caught Ms. Pauling off guard.  
“I think you know the answer to that.”  
“Why?”  
“Because I trust you. I’ve been with you longer than anyone else, and you’ve been there for me since the beginning.”  
“Spare me the naivety. You are smart, that’s why. You’ve seen the people that stabbed me in the back. Tried to, at least. I’d never work with someone I didn’t know I had complete control over, no offense.”  
“Where is this leading, ma’am?”  
“It appears that I have made the mistake of hiring an idiot.”  
“You want me to take care of them?”  
“I’m afraid it won’t be that simple.” She sighed and rubbed her temple. “There’s a file on the desk to your left. In it is all the information I have about the man. You’ll want the RED team for this one.”  
Ms. Pauling looked to her left. Surely the file was there. “Why the RED team? I think Echelon 5 would be better suited for this. I mean, these guys aren’t exactly the most impressive mercs.”  
“Yes, I agree, but they’re expendable. And it appears this man wants something from them. I’m hoping to find out what it is.”  
“What could that possibly be?”  
“I haven’t got a clue. Perhaps a bone to pick.”  
“I’ll get to the bottom of this, ma’am.” She picked up the file next to the desk and walked towards the door.  
“If I’m going to be honest with you,” the Administrator said, “not even I know the first thing about him.”  
Ms. Pauling turned around, nodded, and left.


End file.
